To Kill a Captain
by Sadie Elfgirl
Summary: Thorongil attacks the corsairs of Umbar, but a nasty surprise awaits him...
1. Dream of Home

**Hello everyone out in the world of Fan fiction. Yes…it's me again. I'm back, and I have a nice little story for you.:) well…not very nice. :) Let me first apologize for how long it's been since I posted anything. I really didn't mean for it to be this long and I feel horrible about it. For anyone that is reading this, this story is a sequel to To Be A Man. While it is possible to read this on it's own, there are some things that just wouldn't make sense at all unless you've read the other story first. That being said, I hope everyone enjoys and the next chapter will be up within the week.:)**

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_Thorongil often counselled Ecthelion that the strength of the rebels in Umbar was a great peril to Gondor, and a threat to the fiefs of the South that would prove deadly, if Sauron moved to open war._

_**Return of the King-Appendix A, The Stewards.**_

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_Soft music lent a wistful, sad sound to the peaceful evening breeze. It flowed through the trees, like a wind in and of itself._

_The dark haired Gondorian paused and listened for a moment, his eyes closed. Behind the music he could hear an even more elusive melody. Elves. High, clear laughter echoed softly through the twilight. It pierced his heart with its sweetness, bringing tears to his eyes. How long had it been since he had heard that sound?_

_Too long. Far too long._

_Wiping moisture from his bearded cheeks, the man set off through the trees, listening for the mirthful sound._

_The darkness deepened quickly and soon there were only stars to light the Gondorian's way. Yet his booted feet never stumbled. Boldly, he strode through the gathering gloom with a lightness of foot few humans could achieve. He knew this path of old…_

_The laughter and music grew nearer and now he could see a gleam of light through the closely knit tree branches. Eagerly, he quickened his pace. With a glad cry, he burst from the shelter of the trees into the warm circle of firelight. There were elves there. He knew them. Oh yes, he knew them well. Their dark hair gleamed where the red light touched it. The fire cast dancing shadows over their fair features, but he could see their eyes sparkle as they caught sight of him._

"_Estel!"_

_Confused, the man came to a halt. What had they called him?_

_The elves were coming toward him now, faces wreathed in smiles. "Estel! Le toli bar!"_

_The Gondorian took a step back, his forehead creasing in agitation. He should know the words they were speaking…but he did not. Something was not right. Why were they calling him Estel? That was not his name…_

"Captain?"

Aragorn jumped, coming awake abruptly, the vestiges of his dream still clinging to his mind. Silver eyes darted around, half expecting to see himself in Rivendell amidst his brothers.

He was not.

Instead, he found himself seated at a fire, his back braced against a wall. He had fallen asleep in front of the warm glow. That didn't happen very often. It had been too long since he had gotten a full night's rest.

"Captain?" The voice that had awoken him caught his attention and Aragorn turned to see a young soldier under his command seated next to him. The younger man was just entering his twenties, his dark beard barely a coating of down across his chin and cheeks. "Sir, you seemed upset."

"I'm fine." Aragorn smiled to reassure the soldier. "It was only a dream."

The Gondorian relaxed, settling himself and staring into the fire. "Bad dream, sir?"

"Not exactly." The silver eyes fixed themselves on leaping flames, seeing with sudden vividness the gleam of red light against dark hair. "I dreamt of home."

The young man turned toward him, his gaze curious. "Have you been long from home, Captain?"

Aragorn's smile became a little wistful. "At times, it seems as though I have been away for a lifetime, Anguion."

Anguion smiled knowingly. "Come, Captain Thorongil. You cannot have been away for such a great length of time." His dark eyes danced with amusment.

The Gondorian captain allowed himself to smile back, mischief dancing deep within the silver of his eyes. "I tell you true," he said, his tone jesting. "I have not neared my home for nearly twenty-one years."

For a moment, the soldier's dark eyes grew wide, but seeing the glint in his superior's gaze, he laughed. "For shame, sir. Tis not becoming for a Captain to willingly deceive his men. In truth, you cannot be more than ten years my senior, and I would not say you were so many."

Aragorn laughed along with the younger man. Yet only he knew the full joke. Yes, he had maintained the look of a man barely halfway through his twenties, but in actuality, he was nearer fifty than the thirty Anguion assumed him to be. And it had indeed been twenty-one years since he had set eyes on the valley of Imladris. Lately he had begun to feel that it was time to be going home. The dream that had recently troubled his sleep had visited him before. Always, he dreamed of being home…and not recognizing the elven tongue, nor even his own name that had been given him by the Lord Elrond, whom he called father.

Anguion drifted away to another fire, joining his companions and leaving his Captain to his own devices. Aragorn touched his face reflectively. Most people he met saw him as Anguion did. A young man, hardly old enough to enter the Gondorian army, let alone lead men. There were those who wondered how he had managed to attain such a rank when he appeared to be so youthful. Then there were those who looked into his eyes and saw the wisdom so dearly bought. They saw the lines that seemed premature tracing his forehead and heard the years of experience lend authority to his voice. The steward of Gondor had been one of these. Lord Ecthelion had received Thorongil gladly, quickly discovering that the man was wise, and his counsel sound. Thorongil had been elevated in the Steward's service and estimation even above Ecthelion's own son, Denethor. For which Denethor found it hard to forgive the captain.

He was tired. So tired. It was time to go home.

"Captain?"

Aragorn turned, and saw another of the young men under his command standing at attention. The dark haired man frowned as he rose to his feet. This particular soldier should have been on watch…

"They are coming sir. We sighted their ships. You were right. They are heading towards the fishing village."

Aragorn allowed a brief smile to pull at his mouth. "Well done." With a twitch of his hand, his troop was quickly on their feet. Within minutes, the fires were doused and the men were moving out. Aragorn felt his smile die as he led his men forward into the night. For months now he had been fighting against the corsairs that plagued the coastline. They had recently come under a new leader, and with that leader they had become more bold.

However, Aragorn was no fool. They were fighting a winning battle. Soldiers patroled most of the villages, keeping stacks of fire arrows within easy reach should the wooden corsair ships stray too near the shores. A few were deliberately left ungaurded, their occupants evacuated to other locations. There was a great show of commotion, as if the Gondorians were attempting to stretch their forces to cover everywhere, but did not have enough men. In reality, there was always a large group hanging back from the villages, waiting for the corsairs to attack. Once the pirates invaded the town, they quickly discovered the ruse, but it would be too late. They would be surrounded and defeated. The plan was working well. Several ships had been lost, and now the corsairs grew desperate. They needed supplies to live. Their leader had been sighted several times near the attacks. Hopefully, soon his fleet would be whittled down to the point where his own vessel would be forced to take part in a raid. And then Aragorn would have him. Without the head, the snake would die. Or at least, would start to kill itself off. If the corsairs lacked a leader, they would swiftly turn towards fighting each other and become the lesser danger that they had always been.

And then… then perhaps it would be time to go home. Aragorn smiled briefly. Perhaps tonight would be the night.

Perhaps soon…soon he would be able to return home.

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_Estel! Le toli bar!-Estel! You have come home!_

**Well that's all for now. I love to hear from you all! I love reviews so much and I've been without them for soooooo longs...amazing though how well I've fallen back into my begging routine. I hope my knees are still up for kneeling. :)**


	2. Flames in the Night

**And here we have the next chapter.:) Thanks to all of you who reviewed! It's so nice to be back. Anyway, enter the bad guys…**

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_At last he got leave of the Steward, and gathered a small fleet…  
__ **Return of the King-Appendix A, The Stewards**_

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The leader of the corsairs stood at the helm of his ship, his white hair blowing in the wind behind him. Though his face was deeply lined with years and the once dark hair was now snowy, there was not one man aboard that would cross him. He was a fearsome opponent, cruel intelligence shining through his one dark eye. The other had, in some long gone battle disappeared into scar that ran from his forehead to his chin. Though old, he was hale and hearty still. His age must have been at least three score years, yet he moved with the suppleness of a much younger man and those who would have issue with him found quickly that he had lost none of his speed nor strength.

The lines in his face deepened visibly as he looked out over the still water. Tonight was the night. With an expert hand he guided his black ship towards the shore and the village that awaited him. He knew what was there. The Gondorians lay in wait for him. The corsair snarled softly. He had not told the men, because he knew they were cowardly and would not obey him if they knew they were waltzing into a trap. A clever trap, but he still saw it for what it was.

There was a captain of the Gondorians, Thorongil. He had planned this. The old pirate smiled grimly. So, the young captain hoped to ensare the corsair, did he? Well, two could play at traps. The smile turned hard. This captain had cost him several ships, not to mention wealth that would have been plundered.

White hair flew across his weathered face as the pirate gently turned the wheel. He knew he was playing a desperate gamble. His only hope was to take the Gondorian before he himself was taken. He had given his crew orders to that effect.

Tonight. Everything would end tonight. Either he would sail away victorious, richer for the plunder taken and an enemy removed, or he would die. Perhaps when he was younger he would not have taken such a risk, but he was gettting old. What did he have to lose? His life? It was already nearly played out. He was strong still, but there were days when he knew that he could not continue indefinitely.

"Captain."

The corsair turned from the wheel of his ship, his lined face creasing into a scowl. He did not appreciate being interrupted in the midst of his musings. "What is it, Galvorn?"

The pirate who faced him was a good twenty years younger, and much more broad in the shoulders and chest, yet the younger man swallowed hard at the obvious annoyance in the captain's voice. "The waters are growing shallow, sir. Do you wish to drop anchor and send the men in?"

The captain brooded for a moment. To sail closer would allow the men to disembark quickly, and, should something go wrong, give them better chance of boarding again. However, it would also bring his ship within reach of the Gondorian arrows. The black sailed vessel would be in danger of being burnt, as several others had been before it. He could not afford the loss of another ship.

"Drop anchor."

"Aye, sir." Galvorn turned, beginning to move away.

The elder corsair turned his dark, cold eyes toward the shoreline. "I'm coming for you, Gondorian," he promised darkly, the words barely more than a whisper in the night air. "Galvorn," he said aloud.

"Sir?" The pirate turned back, confused. It was not often his captain called anyone back to him after making a decision.

"Take the wheel." The white haired man stepped away from the wooden spokes. "I'll get the men ready myself."

"Sir…" Galvorn seized hold of the helm, confused. Seeing the look on his first mate's features, the captain offered a smile that did not reach the dark eyes in his lined face. "I'm going ashore as well."

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Aragorn shifted uncomfortably within the confines of his armor. How had he stood this for so long? From the moment he had first joined service with the guard of the white citidel he had found the plate armor worn by all to be immensely uncomfortable and hard to move in. But never had it chafed him so badly as this night. Perhaps it was because he was ready to fling it aside and turn his steps back to Rivendell…

With an effort, the former ranger forced his thoughts away from his home. He could not allow himself to be distracted right before entering battle. There was probably a more certain way of inviting death, but he could not think of one right at the moment. _Perhaps_ Estel's voice said slyly, _Painting that picture of Elladan on the tiles…?_ Aragorn grinned. Not true. He had not died, though he did not think that Elladan had forgiven him to this day.

The captain shifted restlessly once more. He knew the pirates were out there. He could see their ship. He could see the lifeboats starting to drift from it and move towards the shoreline. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The armor managed to find a piece of bare skin and pinch it. Aragorn grimaced, but made no sound. The first thing he was going to do once he was on his way home was throw the wretched thing into the Anduin!

It was hardly even worth the effort to wear it he thought in disgust. Honestly, _orc_ armor withstood blows better…

There was a soft _scrnnch_ as the pirate boats grounded. Making less noise than a cat, Aragorn rose to his feet and gestured with one hand. Even as he saw the pirates rushing forward with torches to burn the nearest huts, he and his men were coming to meet them…

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Flames leapt in the night, devouring the wooden huts that edged the shore. The clash of arms could be heard, it's harsh clanging echoing over the dark waters. Smoke rose from the burning dwellings and obliterated the moon and stars. Men fought and died. The flames reflected in the polished gleam of Gondorian armor and the cruel lights of corsair eyes. With unmitigated hatred, the corsairs flung themselves upon the village and their foes, burning where they could and destroying all they touched.

Grimly, the soldiers of Gondor fought back, matching the corsair ferocity with a cold determination to rid themselves of the sea scum. They had superior numbers, and training. Slowly but surely, they were pushing the corsairs back towards their black ship. Several men were standing by with flame tipped arrows, waiting for the vermin of the seas to be forced back into their vessel. It was, they knew, unlikely that the man who had taken the helm of the black ship would allow it to come within range of the burning shafts, but there was always the chance.

The leader of the corsairs shouted and cursed as he threw himself into battle, urging his men to take what they could and kill all who tried to stop them. He was a fearsome sight, a horrible scar covering most of his face, white hair flying about his head like a madman.

The Gondorian captain was another matter entirely. He fought grimly, and he fought well. There was none that came within reach of his blade that walked away again. Dark, shoulder length hair was tied back with a thong to be out of his face as he battled. Silver eyes were fixed on the captain of the corsairs. If he killed the head, the rabble would flee, and then scatter like chaff before the wind. With a harsh cry, Aragorn flung himself forward. He knew that what he was doing was rash. He was exposing his back to enemy attack by plunging forward like this. At any moment he could be engaged by one of the pirates and another would creep behind him and place a dagger in his neck. A brief smile flickered at the corner of his mouth as he swung his blade. His brothers would have killed him if they saw him attempt something like this. Aragorn laughed silently to himself. If they knew what he was doing, the most likely would have killed him long, long ago.

He was almost there…almost…with a vicious swipe, the Aragorn cut down the last pirate standing between him and his quarry. He raised his weapon and brought it whistling through the air.

At the last moment, the corsair turned and caught the Gondorian's blade against his own. Aragorn was shocked at the strength of his opponent's arm. To all appearances, this man was within his sixties. His hair was snowy white and it fell around a deeply lined face. They pushed at each other, neither giving an inch. Neither able to force the other back.

Their eyes met and glared at each other over their swords. Faces inches apart. Aragorn could see exactly where the scar started and how it ran from the other man's forehead to his chin, taking his right eye.

The man suddenly gasped. His one dark eye widened and his mouth gaped open. "_You_!"

Now it was Aragorn's turn to gape.

The pirate fell back a step, almost stumbling. "_You?_ You're supposed to be dead!" He pointed a finger at Aragorn, his voice shaking. "He was supposed to kill you!" his eye narrowed horribly. "And you haven't aged a day…"

With a jolt, Aragorn realized that somehow, this man _knew _him. Had seen him before. Perhaps year and years before. Quickly, Gondor's captain raised his sword, intending to finish the pirate off. A sharp pain suddenly penetrated his shoulder and Aragorn gasped, whirling to face another of the corsairs that had come at him from behind. His swift movement ripped the dagger from his attacker's hand, and he quickly extinguished his foe's life with a single thrust of his blade.

The movement had taken a bare moment, but as Aragorn turned towards his initial antogoniser, he found that the corsair Captain had disappeared. The former ranger swore with unneccesary violence as his eyes darted back and forth, trying to locate his enemy. Who was this man? How had he known who the Gondorian captain was? And where in the name of all the Valar had he evaporated to? There! He could see the captain down at the tide line. The older man was bellowing a retreat, already wading out toward the longboats himself. The pirates were swift to follow his order, those who were near the boats leaping aboard, those who were not being left behind.

Frustration mounted within the dark haired man. His men were falling upon the pirates who had not been able to escape. The longboats had reached the pirate vessel where it floated out of range of the soldiers arrows. Slowly, the ship was letting out its sail and gliding serenely into the night.

Leaving behind a hell of flame and blood.

Not this time.

Aragorn stared out at the dark waters, his silver eyes unblinking. His mind was almost numb with the events of the night. Who was the captain of the corsairs?

Fires lit the blackness of sky and reflected in the oil smooth waters. The red light made it seem as though the river were made of blood. Aragorn's face grew grim as he admitted that there probably was a good deal of blood in the water. Many of the corsairs had not achieved the goal of their ship in trying to escape. The Gondorians had pursued them and fought bitterly in the shallows. Aragorn's men were rounding up the corsairs who had surrendered.

For a moment the Gondorian captain's face twisted in bitter rage making him so fierce to look upon that those who would have spoken to him turned away, deciding to find a later time at which to consult him.

The corsair had gotten away! The pirate captain had made it back to his ship! Aragorn swore again. Well, he had finished baiting this man. For months the corsairs had ravaged the coast. He was tired of the senseless waste of life. Now it was time to end things.

"Anguion."

"Sir!" The young man's voice let Aragorn know he had been waiting at the former ranger's elbow. Silver eyes did not turn from the wake of the pirate's ship. "Assemble a group of ten able bodied men to take the heavily wounded back to the city. Tell the rest to be ready to move next evening."

"Move?" Anguion allowed his surprise to master his voice for a moment. "Where to, sir?"

"I'm through with waiting for the captain to come to us," Aragorn said curtly. "We're going to sail to him. Take _him_ by surprise and see how he likes to have his home burnt to ash around his ears."

"Yes, sir!"

**Okay! End of chapter two! I love reviews I love reviews I love reviews...did I mention that I love reviews?:) Hope you all enjoy! I should have the next chapter up in about a week.**


	3. Who Was He?

**Here is the next chapter as promised.:) wow…I'm actually posting everything on time with this story! Oh, I am so proud. Anyway, thanks to everyone once again for your wonderful reviews! I've received a number of questions concerning the twins and Legolas, mainly, if they will be showing up in this story. The answer is…no. I'm afraid that this is all Aragorn. Sorry! I love the twins and Legolas, but this story I felt should be just everyone's favorite ranger. Some of you have also guessed the identity of the villain.:) and I will say again, that though this story CAN be read on its own, it makes MUCH more sense if it's read after To Be a Man. Not that I'm trying to promote my own stories or anything…I'm really not! I promise! Anyway, enjoy the next chapter! Oh, before I forget, there were three people who reviewed anon. I'm sorry that I cannot respond to you personally through the e-mail system, but thank you very much for taking the time to review, I really appreciate it.**

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_And he came to Umbar unlooked for by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs._

_ **Return of the King-Appendix A, The Stewards**_

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"Take us out." The older pirate's voice was harsh as he clambered aboard his vessel. Galvorn instantly did as he was told, calling for the hands to haul up the anchor and release the sails as he agile hands quickly spun the wheel. He was, however, surprised at the obvious agitation of his master. The older man was almost shaking. He made no attempt to take the helm from Galvorn, but stared back at the receding village. His gnarled hands clenched tightly around the ship's railing as he hunched his shoulders. He seemed to have aged in the time he had left the ship.

"It couldn't be," the captain hissed under his breath, yet Galvorn cold not help but hear the waver in the pirate's voice. "It couldn't be. He's dead. He was killed years ago. It's not him. It's _not_!"

With an obvious effort, the captain tore his hands from the railing and turned away, his face haggard and drawn. "Sir," Galvorn said cautiously. "did you want to take the wh…?"

"Keep it!" The cold, cruel, eye focused on the first mate for a moment, and the younger man shuddered at the look he saw in it. It was one of rage, of hatred…of fear. Galvorn didn't know which of those emotions frightened him the most. As his captain slowly walked away toward his cabin the first mate had to wonder what had happened on the shore that was able to frighten a man such as the one he served.

He didn't think he wanted to know the answer to that question.

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Stumbling into his cabin, the corsair swiftly shut the door behind him and allowed himself to sink onto his bunk. His legs were trembling with the shock sweeping through his system. Here, out of the sight of his men, he finally allowed it to show.

It couldn't be him.

Thorongil's face swum before his single eye. Dark hair tied back, his teeth bared in a warlike grimace. Silver eyes. Silver eyes burning with a will of steel behind them…

The old corsair had only ever seen one man with that steel in his eyes. Only one. But that had been twenty-five years past! Quite apart from the fact that the man in question was supposed to be _dead_, if Thorongil truly were him, then he would have remained untouched by the passage of time since the last time the pirate had laid eyes on him.

In an odd moment of self consciousness the corsair's hand fluttered to the scar that had taken half his vision. The last time the pirate had seen _him_ he had enjoyed the use of both his eyes. His fingers lingered for a moment, feeling the depth of the creases that scored his weather beaten face.

It couldn't be him.

Taking a deep breath, the captain slowly lay back on his bunk and stretched his legs out. His single eyes stared at the ceiling as though it would burn a hole through the wooden planks.

It couldn't be. He wouldn't believe it. Not until he had proof.

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Early dawn was breaking, casting its cold, clear light over the ashes of last night's battle. Mist covered the surface of the river in a thick white blanket, but it would soon burn away.

Almost concealed by the mist, a lone figure sat, gazing towards the south and the long winding body of the Anduin. Despite the fact that he had taken to his bed a mere three hours previously, Aragorn's mind would not allow him to sleep. He sat on the bank of the river, his knees drawn up to his chest, hands clasped loosely around them. His dark hair was not pulled back as it had been the night before. Freed from its restraint, it brushed his shoulders gently, small tendrils blowing across his forehead with the morning breeze. Gone was the breastplate and every other piece of the armour he hated so thouroughly. Dressed in a simple homespun shirt and leather trousers, he looked more like the boy Estel than the Captain Thorongil.

Grumbling in frustration, the former ranger dug his fingers into his hair. Try as he might he could not place the face that swam before his eyes. With a sigh, he shut his silvery orbs, concentrating.

"_And you haven't aged a day…"_

The voice. The voice was the key. Something stirred within his memory. It was prodding at the farthest reaches of his mind, refusing to come into clear focus, but present.

"_You know the elves land. You have lived with them…"_

_"Strider…"_

A figure was forming in his mind, but it continued to elude positive definition. At times it seemed as though he would have it…but then it slipped away, less substantial than the mist that covered the Anduin.

"Captain?"

Aragorn jumped. He had been so involed with his own thoughts that he had not heard Anguion's approaching footsteps.

"Captain, is something wrong?"

Interrupted in the midst of forming, the figure dissolved into nothingness. Aragorn sighed softly. Perhaps it was just as well. He did not need to know who this man was to know that he must be stopped. And he had spent quite enough time brooding over the corsair's identity already. "No." With smooth grace, he rose from his position and turned to face the young man. "No, not at all." The smile he forced onto his face was not quite sincere. "Come. We have work to do if we are to be ready this evening."

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"Captain?"

The old corsair groaned and turned his face into his pillow. Another tap came at his door. "Captain Halith?"

With a grunt, Halith rose from his bunk, brushing white hair out of his eyes. Shaking sleep off quickly, the captain moved towards the door, scooping up a blade as he went and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.

Galvorn stood stiffly to attention as his captain swung the wooden portal open. Halith grunted, indicating that the younger man had better give a reason for waking him, and that it had better be good.

"We've reached home, sir." Galvorn stepped aside quickly as the older corsair pushed his way forward. "The men are waiting for permission to disembark."

The pirate captain's single dark eye flickered over the shoreline. A thriving, prosperous town was seated there. On the surface, it seemed as innocuous as any Gondorian seat of humanity. Only when one looked closer did the evil and corruption show. A slave market sat at the docks, the hawker quickly dispensing of any captives brought from the raided towns. Orcs were present, their cruel, ugly faces twisted into evil smiles as they purchased slaves to take back to their dark land. There were women as well, as in any town, but these unfortunate ones were mostly captive of previous raids. Ripped from their homes and brought to the bed of the pirates they lived out their lives in a horrible travesty of what should have been. Children they bore, and they raised them, but the boys were taken to be trained on the ships and the girls were looked on as worthless until they grew old enough to be used. A terrible, grim life.

Halith was not concerned with such things. "Tell the men they can go, and I want them ready to set out in one week's time." The old pirate did not even look at Galvorn as he gave his order. His eye was drawn to his own dwelling, and the black steed that was tied outside. He sucked in his breath sharply. He knew that horse. Halith silently cursed the ill fortune that had brought this Thorongil to Gondor. If it wasn't for him…

With a grimace Halith cast off his dark thoughts. He straightened his shoulders grimly. It would never do to allow the Mouth to see any sign of weakness. As he descended the gangplank of his ship the old corsair wished that the Mouth had chosen a more auspicious moment for a visit. Returning home in ignonimous defeat with almost half a crew dead or injured was not the image he wished to convey to his…patron. Ah well. What was, was. He would just put a better face on the situation than it merited.

The hut was dark. Halith felt his skin crawl as it always did when faced with the sheer evil that flowed from his visitor's cloaked form. His tongue tied itself into knots as he tried to think anything he could say to make his precarious position less so. The corsair's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

With the barest whisper of black cloth, the Mouth of Sauron raised his hand, cutting off anything the pirate wished to say in his own defense. "Calm thyself, corsair," the gravelly tones rolled from the bloodstained lips. "I did not come to punish thee for thy lack of competence when dealing with the Gondorians, though," the lips twisted in a cruel smile, "perhaps that day is not so far off. The orcs look for new blood, and though thou hast promised them they shall have their fill of mans flesh, it has not been delivered."

Halith silently cursed Thorongil with all the venom in his being. The Mouth's smile twisted a little more as the evil creature surveyed Halith's obvious discomfort.

"As I have said, however, that is not my purpose this day." With careful deliberation, the Mouth stood and moved towards the pirate. Halith forced himself to stay in one place even though he desperately wished to step backwards. The Mouth's face was within inches of the corsair's, and Halith could smell evil breath as it flowed between rotted teeth.

"My master is stirring," the Mouth whispered. "His eye is searching far and wide. In the past thou has proved thyself to be quickwitted, and able to detect what other men do not see."

Halith unconsciously reached up to finger that scar that ran across his cheek. His ability to see what others did not was the only thing that had saved his life. Had he walked into the trap with the rest of his men…

"There is a man whom my master wishes to find."

The corsair Captain pulled himself back to the present. "Anything more specific than that?" His tone was verging on scornful, but for a few seconds, the man did not care. With careful steps, he moved away from the dreadful apparition and seated himself on one of his flimsy chairs. Sprawled in apparent unconcern, the elderly man looked up at the Mouth with a face carefully wiped blank. Inside, he heart was racing. He had an inkling…just an inkling of what was coming.

"This is no ordinary man."

"Really. What makes him different than any one of the men that infest this shore?" Halith kept his voice on the edge of uninterested. In reality he was waiting eagerly for every word.

The Mouth continued as though he hadn't heard Halith. "He will be a leader. Men will follow him. He will be someone that may unite the men of Gondor and lead them against my master." The Mouth paused for a moment, and his bloody lips twisted into a sneer. "The heir of Isildur."

Within his chest, Halith felt his heart leap. The old pirate was hard pressed to keep his face calm. "The heir? I believe you will find him dead. Isildur's line has long since passed from this world."

The black cowl that coved most of the Mouth's head shook. "Nay. The line of kings has survived the ages. Dark haired men that speak the tongue of the elves and live to the North. The Dunedain."

Halith was truly surprised. "Rangers? You must jest!"

The hood shook again. "Nay. Thy ship passes through many lands…or at least it _did_."

The pirate winced at the reminder that he was not in a very good position.

"Keep alert. If thee should find a man such as this, my master will reward thee for thy service."

Halith remained silent as the grim spectre turned, and exited the pirate's hut. The door creaked open, and even the sunlight that flowed through the door seemed to be leached of life and warmth as long as the black figure was there to absorb it.

For a moment, the Mouth turned and looked back at the corsair. Halith could almost feel the evil eye of this grim monster's master and he shook, his own soul shriveling in horror. Despite the tempting promise of wealth at this moment he wished for nothing more to do with the Mouth of Sauron and the evil he represented, he wanted to flee from the Eye's gaze, he wanted to hide in a dark corner of the world and never return…

Then the Mouth turned away. With a rustle of his black robes he was gone. Warm sunlight flowed through the doorway and over Halith's shaking form. The corsair drew in a deep shuddering breath. He could hear the black steed that had been tethered outside snort, then hoofbeats slowly fading into the noise of the corsair village. With a shaking hand, Halith wiped sweat from his brow. The elderly man did not know how on earth a beast could be trained to carry such a master, but then, it was rumored that the wraiths also rode mounts of flesh and blood. With a final shiver, Halith shook aside his fear. He could not let anything distract him. There was a profit to be had here. He needed to take advantage of it.

0-0-0-0

Aragorn stood within his tent, his feet planted solidly apart, arms crossed. His back was turned towards the opening. Through the loose flap, a slim beam of light pierced the gloom of the tent and sparkled across the armor laid out.

Red light. Sunset. Soon Aragorn knew he must don the combersome shell that sat before him and step out to lead his men.

The former ranger ran a finger over the breastplate, feeling the cool smoothness of the metal. As he moved his arm, his injured shoulder groaned in protest but he ignored it. Once the armuour was in place, he was Captain Thorongil, of Gondor. He could not afford to be anything else. He could not afford the luxury of physical weakness, or of emotions. Estel of Imladris would not be able to order men forward, knowing he was sending them to their deaths. Strider of the Dunadain perhaps _could_…but would try to find another way.

And Aragorn?

The dark haired man shuddered abruptly and dropped his hand. Here of all places he was most reluctant to draw on the strength his heritage was supposed to confer. He did not seek the authority that was his by right.

With a deep sigh, Aragorn pulled his hair back from his face and tied it securely. The sunlight flickering over the polished surface of his breastplate was slowly fading. It was time.

Captain Thorongil began buckling his armor into place.

0-0-0-0

Anguion snapped to attention as his Captain boarded the ship. All the Gondorians did. They stood stiffly as silver eyes swept over the vessel, taking in the slightest details. They knew they had done their job well. All was prepared for departure. Slowly, the dark haired captian strode toward the helm, where Anguion stood waiting. The young soldier watched his commanding officer approach and blinked suddenly. The moonlight must be playing tricks on his eyes. For a moment, Thorongil's pace seemed unnaturally graceful, his feet making next to no sound as he moved from the gangplank to the helm. His face seemed at once young, as young as Anguion's own, and yet old. Grave, and worn with the cares of great reponsibility, yet carefree and smooth. Joyful, and sorrowing. Human…and not quite human.

The moment passed so quickly that the young man might have believed himself to have imagined it.

Thorongil came level with the great wheel and stood there rigidly, his dark head tilted towards the heavens. A soft whisper broke the slence, though only Anguion was close enugh to hear the breath of sound.

"_Earendil…_"

Had he heard correctly? Had his captain whispered the elves name for the star…?

"Anguion."

The soldier swiftly brought his attention back into the present. "Sir!"

The Captain's eyes were steady, and as cold as the stars themselves. "It is time to get under way. We have pirates to visit, and Gondorion lives to avenge."

"Yes, _sir_!"

0-0-0-0

The night was cold. Fires burned in the corsairs dwellings and the pirates slept soundly beside them. They did not hear the soft splashes as the Gondorian soldiers disembarked. They did not see the moonlight gleam against the polished armour.

At least, not until it was too late.

0-0-0-0

Voices rose in war cries, shouts of pain…screams of terror. They mixed with the black smoke that obscured the stars, rising into the night. The huts along the river front were burning, along with several ships of the corsair fleet. Orange flames coloured the waves a blood red.

If he hadn't known better, Aragorn could've sworn he was reliving the corsair attack of the previous evening. Once again there were flames leaping into the night. Once again, corsair and Gondorian alike felt the fatal kiss of cold steel and fell. Once again, the Gondorians held the upper hand and were pressing their advantage.

Once again, Captain Thorongil reflected on how badly the twin sons of Elrond would hurt him if they were to witness his actions.

Without thought of protection, Aragorn pushed forward, painfully aware that his back was being exposed. But he didn't care. He had one goal in mind.

The captain. Where was he?

Silver eyes blazing, the Gondorian pushed through the crowd of foes, hs sword almost a blur. There! The pirate stood at the top of the ganplank to his ship, his white hair blowing wildly. His ship was the only vessel that had not taken flame, being docked a fair distance from the others. In the excitement, the Gondorian soldiers had overlooked it. Now, the corsair meant to flee. A look of intense hatred and despair was etched across his scarred face.

Blinded by rage, Thorongil dove through the press of enemy, his only thought to somehow reach his foe.

Unfortunately, he failed to notice that the enemy he fought was beginning to move towards the ships as well. The corsairs were retreating…but they were carrying Gondor's Captain along in their rush.

For a few moments, Aragorn had forgotten that he was wearing the dead weight of steel armour. He had forgotten his injuries and the fact that he had not slept in nearly two days. His feet practically flew up the gangplank, sword glittering in his hand. However, he swiftly discovered that the corsair captain was not one to be taken off-guard easily. The older man was ready for him, his own curved blade held up as Aragorn leapt to the deck of the ship. With a cry, Aragorn hurled himself at the pirate. Sword clashed on sword. Around and around the deck the two combatants fought. Their blades created an intricate, glittering dance of death.

The swords locked. Corsair and Captain strained forward, but neither could gain an inch. Though the corsair was elderly, he was strong. And Thorongil was injured, though he fought hard to ignore the slow burning pain from his shoulder. Panting, they glared at each other through the criss cross of steel. Aragorn saw the elder man's single eye flicker to the side for a moment. Just a moment.

Too late, the Gondorian realized the trap he had fallen into. He jerked back, away from his enemy. Whirling with a speed unmatched by any normal human, the dark-haired man was just in time to catch a club on his sword. The pirate that had sought to sneak up on Aragorn yelped in surprise as the keen edge bit deeply into the wood. Aragorn snarled fiercely, ripping the club from the corsair's fingers. Unfortunately, Aragorn knew that the man he had just disarmed was not the only one that sought to take him down…

A painful blow to the back of his head caused him to fall to his knees, his sword clattering to the deck. Aragorn shook his head, trying to dispel the stars that swam in his vision, but he knew that he would never recover in time. Blackness started to creep around the corners of his silver eyes. Through the haze, he saw a figure step in front of him. The corsair Captain! But no…that man was elderly, his hair white. This man looked closer to his forties. His hair was dark, and his face was weather beaten. Instead of one there were two dark eyes…they glittered cruelly…Aragorn shuddered. He knew this face…but was it the face he knew? Or was it the pirate? For though he could have sworn the hair was dark now it was white…and the man was missing his eye…

The corsair swung his fist, blocking out Aragorn's vision and sending him into darkness.

0-0-0-0

**There you go! I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far. If you are, let me know! I love reviews sooooooo much. Next chapter should be up in the usual week.:)**


	4. Old Enemies

**Okay, first and foremostly, I am DEEPLY sorry for how long this has taken to post. The last Sunday that I was supposed to post we had a thunderstorm that knocked our power out, and I have the unfortunate and very bad habit of letting things slide if I don't do them EXACTLY when I'm supposed too. I'm soooooooooo sorry! I hope you will all forgive me and enjoy the story anyway.:)**

**Many thank to those who reviewed anonymously. I can't send you a personal reply like the ones that are signed, but I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your reviews very very much!**

**One more little note here, there is a section where Aragorn speaks differently than I usually write. I wrote this way because in the books, when Aragorn comes to Gondor as the Heir of Isildur he does speak using thee and thou. Just so everyone knows why I decided to suddenly switch writing styles in the middle of the story.:) Enjoy!**

**0-0-0-0**

_He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays-_

**_ Return of the King-Appendix A, The Stewards_**

0-0-0-0

Halith looked down contemptuosly at the fallen Gondorian. "Bind him tight," the aged pirate hissed. "Then, take him to the brig." A tight smile creased the Captain's face. He would settle his doubts once and for all. There was an easy way to prove that this was not the man he had known. Once that matter was out of the way, he had the Gondorian's precious captain. The man who had been a constant thorn in Halith's flesh since the day he heard the name: Thorongil.

The single, dark eye watched as his men swiftly bound Thorongil and dragged him off.

_What if_, a little voice whispered in his head, _what if it _is_ him?_

Halith slowly raised one hand and stroked his scarred cheek. Then, he told himself, it would be his ultimate pleasure to watch the man die on the point of his sword. But it wasn't him. It couldn't be.

0-0-0-0

A stench rose from the stairwell and Halith wrinkled his nose. He hated coming down here and avoided it whenever possible. The brig stank of unwashed bodies, refuse and the rats that found their way aboard. Combined with this unpleasant aroma was a stale, lingering element. Very little fresh air found it's way to this spot. It was smotheringly suffocating, making the smell worse, of course. The lantern that swung from the pirate's hand made a small pool of golden light, and the corsair was not pleased with what he saw in just that small circle.

Wooden steps creaked under Halith's boots. The elderly pirate descended slowly, his single dark eye trained on the prone form that lay within one of the tiny cells. Several pieces of the Gondorian's armour had fallen loose on the bumping trip down the stairs. The pirates had stacked them in the corner. The man had tied his hair back, but the thong had come undone, and dark locks spread into the moldy hay on which he rested.

Halith unlocked the door, wincing as the key grated in the rusty metal. With a grimace, he flung the door open and stepped into the small cubicle. A line appeared between his brows as he looked down on the Gondorian.

It couldn't be.

But the man looked so much like him…

It had to be his son.

Could even a son take on the features that burned themselve into Halith's mind? Could a son really resemble his father this closely?

There was only one way to find out.

Halith's booted foot nudged Thorongil onto his stomach. Kneeling, the elderly pirate set his lantern well to the side and reached out a hand that was no longer completely steady to take hold of the Gondorian's homespun shirt. For a few moments after his fingers closed on the rough material, he could not bring himself to move. "It's not him," he whispered to himself. "It's not." The eyebrows drew together angrily. "It's _not_!" With a savage jerk, he ripped the shirt upwards, laying Thorongil's back bare.

The effect of what met Halith's eyes was strangely unique. For a full minute, the corsair could only stare, his face growing more and more pale. With a shriek, the pirate fell back, barely avoiding the lantern and crab-walking as fast as he could until he slammed against the nearest wall. There he stayed for a long while, his eye riveted on the Gondorian's exposed flesh.

Thorongil shifted, making the muscles in his back twitch. Tanned skin covered the muscle, but it was marked. One of the marks was quite fresh, a ragged cut that the Captain had most likely aquired in the raid the night before. This was not what seized Halith's attention so securely. On the Gondorian's back, several long, pale scars traced themselves lengthwise, starting at his shoulders and running nearly to his waist. Someone had hurt him very cruelly, although it was obviously long ago.

Halith drew in a deep shuddering breath. He knew what had made those marks. He had been present when they were made. And he knew who this man was.

"Strider," he whispered, slowly rising from the floor. With cautious steps, Halith moved back to Thorongil's side. He stuck his foot under the man's body and flipped him over. With something close to awe, he gazed on the face that did not seem to have aged since the last time he had seen it, a quarter of a century ago.

"How?"

0-0-0-0

Aragorn stirred fitfully. He wasn't very comfortable. Mind, sleeping in plate armour was never his brightest idea, and he assumed that he had followed through on that particular action since he could not remember taking the blasted stuff off. In fact, he didn't remember getting ready for sleep at all.

A frown creased his forehead and drew the corners of his lips down. Actually, the last thing he remembered was boarding his ship…seeing Earendil shining silver on the dark waters…

How had he come to be sleeping? What in the name of the Valar was that ungodly stench? And why, above all questions, did his head hurt so abominably?

Aragorn groaned softly and forced his eyelids to open a crack. Silver orbs surveyed the dismal scene without enthusiasm. He rested on damp, moldy hay. Lying on his side, his range of vision _was_ limited, but he could see at least two rats investigating a pile of armour in the corner of the dank cell. His armour. There was still some attached to him, but not nearly enough to afford any kind of protection. And his hands were bound, of course.

Now some of the nights events started to come back to him. He had charged forward, disregarding his own safety. He remembered fighting with the corsair captain…someone must have struck him from behind…Nothing concrete after that. Vague images of a nightmare flickered through his mind but he pushed them aside. For an instant he could have sworn he saw…no. No, he hadn't. It was ridiculous.

"Are you awake yet?"

The harsh voice that sounded behind him startled Aragorn considerably. With an effort, he kept himself from jumping. Taking a deep breath, the former ranger rolled over, careful to keep his face blank. He tried not to think to hard about what he might be rolling in. The smell that rose from the hay as he moved was truly atrocious.

Iron bars slightly obstructed his view, but he could see the aged pirate captain quite plainly through them. The man was leaning against them in fact, his single dark eye riveted on Aragorn's prone form.

A full minute of silence stretched between the two men. The former ranger's silver orbs slowly passed over the corsair. An uneasiness was building in the back of his mind. There was something not right. Asides from the fact that he was bound and helpless. No, though his current predicament was not one he would have hope for, it was not what was worrying him most. There was something very dark clinging to this older man. Something at once palpable, yet indefinable. Something that lurked, almost hidden behind his craftily gleaming eye.

Aragorn was surprised to see the hard beaten face crease into a hard smile. There was no mirth in the pirate's expression, but rather…satisfaction.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" The question was suddenly put, the tone almost friendly.

Aragorn closed his eyes, concentrating. That voice. He had heard that voice before. He knew it.

_"Strider…"_

"Strider."

The silver eyes snapped open again, thought shattered. The corsair's smile widened. "That was your name once, wasn't it? Though now you go by another. Thorongil. Tell me, is this now your true name, or another title that you hide behind?"

Aragorn remained silent. There was nothing else he could do.

"I think, however, that I will continue to call you Strider. After all, it was the name that I first learned to connect with your face. The name I repeated to myself over almost thirty years. The name that I learned to hate."

This was not going anywhere good.

"However, it would seem that you have been graced with some skill beyond the reach of most mortals."

Aragorn did not care for the direction this one sided dialogue was taking. The corsair was straying too far towards the truth of his heritage.

"You see, Strider," the corsair squatted down, bringing his face down so that Aragorn did not have to strain his neck looking up. "This," he touched the wrinkles of skin on his cheeks, "This is what happens to most people in nearly thirty years." The corsair straightened, swung the door of the cell wide and strode in. He gazed down at the Gondorian dispassionately. "Yet the years seem to have flown by and left you as unscathed as the elves that were your companions when last our paths crossed." Again, he knelt, and one rough hand reached out to touch Aragorn's face. "Not completely unscathed. There are lines here, but they are of the kind that are etched with labour and experience…not always pleasant experience." The voice changed subtly, becoming less friendly and more biting. "Unpleasant experiences are something that I know all about, Strider. I went through many of them when I parted from your elf friend." The hand that had been touching Aragorn's skin withdrew and stroked the scar that traced it's way down the pirate's cheek. "It was he who took my eye. Did he tell you that?"

Horror broke over Aragorn with with a dawning realization. The face of his nightmares appeared once more, but it did not fade. It changed, the hair becoming white instead of dark…lines of age and hard living slowly traced their way across the already weather beaten skin…

Legolas had taken the eye. Legolas had created the scar that ran across the nightmare.

"Halith…" The sound was barely a whisper that forced itself between his lips.

"You do remember me! Ah, I am glad." The mirthless smile twisted even more, baring yellowed teeth.

Aragorn felt ill. Yes. He remembered Halith. He remembered Halith very well. Years had gone by and he had not been able to forget the man that stood before him. Almost thirty years. A shudder coursed through his body as though he had been touched by an iron brand. Too well he remembered the piercing pain of the cruel wands that this man had placed in his flesh.

"Now, Strider, I have some questions that I should like to have answered." Halith settled himself into the hay, disregarding the unwholesome odor that suggested this was an unwise course of action.

Ah, Eru. A distraction of some kind, please. For the love of the Valar…Aragorn's mind was swamped with horror. It had been years and he had not been able to rid himself of the nightmares that followed his memory of this man. Betrayal and days of torment…torture that surpassed anything he had ever experienced before or since. "What do you wish, traitor?" He asked through clenched teeth.

"You still haven't forgiven me for that then?" The pirate's voice was amused.

"Have I had reason to do so?"

Halith shrugged. "Perhaps not. How did you come to Gondor, Strider? What long paths led your wandering feet here?"

"Paths that had nothing that would interest you. Therefore I will not bore you with a recitation of my deeds." The question made Aragorn uneasy, though he could not say why.

"Ah, that is where you are wrong." A curious gleam was kindled in the corsair's eye. "I am very curious to all of your doings since last we parted. For my part, I believed you dead, and I did not grieve. I knew then that Daeion had plucked a flaming branch from the fire. Unfortunately for him, the fire spread and he was consumed by his own foolishness. I warned him against you, but he did not heed me."

"It is well for me that he did not heed you. Had he taken your advice, I would not have survived until my…until the elves came for me." Aragorn quickly clamped his lips together, berating himself. He had almost let slip the word 'brothers'. Though he could not pinpoint the reason, he knew instinctively that giving away too much information to so deadly a foe could very well prove disastrous. Before, Halith had been eager to kill him without questions. What had changed? Why did he desire conversation now? "And what of you?" The former ranger let his tone become scathing. "How did you happen upon your current employment? And what new master has control of your leash? Another man as Daeion?"

He had meant the questions to antogonize Halith, perhaps make him angry enough to forget his line of interrogation. Strangely, the elder man seemed amused. He chuckled softly to himself even as he gazed at his captive. "Daeion?" he shook his white head gently. "No, Strider. No. My master is far greater than Daeion could have ever hoped to become. Far greater." A shadow seemed to pass over the older man's face, and for a moment, Aragorn was startled to see a spark of fear in the pirate's eye. "And far more terrible," he added, almost to himself. "A master that knows not the pain of human flesh and has endured ages…ages and ages of this world…" Halith's voice trailed off, and Aragorn could see plainly the fear that marked the man.

The Gondorian captain felt himself freeze. For a moment, Halith was not attending to him, caught up in musings of his own. Aragorn swallowed hard. He had known, or course, that the corsairs of Umbar were involved in trade with the black land. Rage had seized him whenever he thought of the Gondorians that had been spirited away to supply Mordor with slaves. But to receive open aknowledgment of that fact, when he was in his current position… Sweat broke out coldly on his brow. He had known of the power that lay in Mordor stirrings. He knew that Sauron sought to build his power to its former height…but apparently, the dark lord was moving faster than he had anticipated. He had contact with the corsairs. The pirates knew of him, and were helping him. Things were being done in his name, and not the name of an underling.

He had grown stronger. Much stronger if he dared so much.

"But that is not what I wish to discuss, Strider." Halith's eye was once more focused on the former ranger. Aragorn hid his uneasiness, forcing his face to become blank. The pirate's mouth twisted into half a smile, as if he guessed what was running through his captive's mind. "You were once one of the Rangers that rode through the North, or so you told me many years ago. Obviously, you have switched from one service to another, but that does not concern me. I wish to know more of the Rangers that you rode with."

Alarm bells went off with such a deafening cacaphony within Aragorn's head, he wondered at Halith's being unable to hear it. His smile was wintry cold when he answered his foe, his eyes chips of silver ice. "You tried to extract information from me once before." His gaze lingered pointedly on the scar running from Halith's forehead to jaw. "It did not go well for you."

Halith met the icy gaze, but could not hold it. The pirate casually drew a dagger, and focused his attention on the blade, as though that was where he had meant his dark eye to turn all along. "That is neither the here nor the now, Strider. That was nearly thirty years ago, and things have changed. For instance, I am no longer under the command of a weak master. You will tell me what I wish to know…or you will discuss it with Him." An appalling silence lingered in the air of the cell, as though drawn by thought the pirate's dark master had forced some of his presence through space to join them.

Aragorn felt a moment's worth of abject terror. Every dark tale he had ever heard of the evil that flowed through Mordor's black land crowded to the forefront of his brain. To be given into the hands of Sauron…to have one's soul and life stripped away, as he had done for the Nine. Only Aragorn knew that his fate would be far worse. If he were taken by force to the dark Lord's throne, his identity would be revealed and the power of Mordor would gloat. He would become a servant of the wraiths to torment. Like them, yet weaker, and meaner, and even less of a spirit. Something for Sauron to laugh at and gloat over. The hope of men, caught forever in his power.

Hope.

Estel.

Halith drew back unconsciously as Aragorn gazed upon him coldly. The pirate thought for an instant he had seen fear in the younger man's eyes, but it was no more. Strength lay there. Majestic and noble he looked, though he lay in the refuse of the world. His bearing was that of a king, not a captain. Steel flashed in the silver eyes.

"Speak no more of things that you cannot grasp," Aragorn ground between clenched teeth. He was angry, and in his wrath, he appeared more than ever a lord rather than a footsoldier. "Leave me, spawn of filth. Go back to thy rag tag crew and tell them what lies thou have already wound around their hearts. Speak thee of victory?" A harsh laugh fell from the Gondorian's lips. "It has been taken from thy hands! And where is the prize thou sought to give thy master? You have nothing, and are nothing. Though I perish, Gondor will hound thee until thy ship breaks itself to pieces. The winds that thou thought would be thy freedom will take thy body and fling it to the seas! Go! Leave me in peace and hound me not with thy serpent's tongue!"

Stumbling to his feet, Halith turned and fled the cell, sending the lantern flying as he went, forgetting for the moment that he was the captor, and this man his captive. His feet carried him up from the stench and away to his cabin where he shut the door tightly and leaned against it trembling, his only thought to hide from the terrible brightness of the silver eyes.

0-0-0-0

Aragorn blinked rapidly, seeing Halith take to his heels. The former ranger swallowed hard, trying not to think of what had just happened. He had touched the strength that he had long kept hidden from men. Even he was amazed at the results. However, strength of will did not affect hemp whatsoever. He was still bound, though, in his haste, Halith had left the cell door wide open.

Aragorn slowly rolled himself onto his back, then rose into a sitting position. Wincing, he scooted to the nearest wall and leaned against it, wincing as his injured shoulder came into contact with the rough wood. His head was swimming from the blow he had received earlier in the evening. The silver eyes scanned the tiny room quickly, looking for anything that could possibly aid in his escape. A rough piece of metal, a blade, sciccors perhaps? Aragorn's eyes lit on his discarded armour. Ah. A slight smile tugged at his bearded mouth. Perhaps the stuff was not quite so useless after all…

Grunting, Gondor's captain slowly scootched himself acroos the floor until he lay within reach of the pile of gleaming metal. There was a rough edge across the breastplate. Many was the time he had cursed that edge as it dug into bare skin, but now how he blessed it! He reached forward eagerly and slowly started to rub the hemp strands up and down.

A stinging, burning sensation was building in the back of the former ranger's throat, and though he tried to ignore it, he swiftly found that this was an impossibility. Aragorn coughed, choked, and tried to breathe deeply, but was foiled. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, clogging his lungs. What was happening? Casting a glance over his shoulder, Aragorn froze.

The lantern that Halith had brought down into the brig had been knocked aside when the pirate fled. The glass had shattered, and the flame burned cheerfully amidst a pile of hay. As of yet, the dampness had kept the flame from spreading overly quickly. It just created quite a lot of smoke. However, Aragorn could see that this would not be the case for much longer. The flames would spread, and he would be consumed.

_That_, he thought sourly as he choked again, _or I will die from breathing the smoke_. The Gondorian tore wildly at the ropes, wincing as rough metal bit through flesh as well as hemp. Ignoring the pain, he kept on. His life was certainly worth more than a few patches of skin! Smoke irritated his eyes, and tears poured down his cheeks. He could't breath…he was going to pass out soon…

With a snap, the last strand parted. Aragorn ripped the ropes from his wrists and staggered to his feet. The Gondorian captain clutched at the wall as he nearly fell to his knees once more. The smoke was making him lightheaded. With a half choked snarl, he pushed himself towards the door. The flames were growing now, taking a better hold on the dampened straw. Aragorn paused for a moment, his foot lifted, thinking to stamp out the blaze. But he did not. Let the ship burn. Even if he did not escape, neither would any of this last group of corsairs.

Covering his nose and mouth with his hand, Aragorn ran for the stairs.

0-0-0-0

The dark haired man burst onto the main deck into a scene of complete chaos. Groggy from the smoke he had inhaled, it was several moments before Aragorn could truly grasp what was happening. The corsairs were diving from the ship, hoping against hope that they would be able to swim away, keeping their lives. Others were making a stand, but their grim expressions showed that they had no hope of survival…

The Gondorians were attacking. Aragorn felt his heart leap. Instead of sorting through the mess at the corsairs home, his men had followed this last ship, pursuing their enemies to the end. Their ship had come alongside the corsairs, and moonlight shone from the helms and breastplates of Gondorian soldiers. Hail after hail of arrows descended on the unfortunate pirates. Some sought to return fire, but the arrows could not pierce the silver armour.

Aragorn grinned to himself. Finally something that could not penetrate the worthless metal.

On the Gondorian ship, Aragorn caught sight of the leader of his men. Anguion stood tall beneath the moonlight. The young man signalled to the line of soldiers, and the front dropped back, allowing others to step forward. They bent their bows and shot arrows high. The arrows rose into the night sky and fell like shooting stars…flames and all. Fire arrows thudded into the wooden deck and sails. The corsairs screamed and wailed in panic, beating at the flames. However, as soon as they extinguished the fires, more arrows poured in, and more on top of that…

Smoke pouring through the door behind Aragorn reminded him that the lower decks were also ablaze. Now, he decided, would be a wonderful time to leave. But how to make it to his men without being shot? He could dive into the water and swim, but there were many corsairs already following through with that plan, and Anguion was breaking groups of the soldiers off to deal with that particular problem. The pirates that took to the water had a better chance of escaping than those on the ship, but they were more likely to receive an arrow in the back than to make it safely to the shore.

Perhaps the direct method would be the best.

Aragorn charged towards the rail, desperately hoping that any soldier who caught sight of him would recognize him before they decided he made an excellent target. "_Angion!_"

The Gondorian captain saw his second in command start. The young man's eyes snapped to the deck of the corsair ship. He was searching…

_Recognize me,_ Aragorn prayed desperately as he ran forward. _Recognize me_!

Anguion siezed hold of his ship's railing, his jaw dropping down to his chest. The young man's expression was one of horrifed realization. Aragorn found this strangely reassuring.

"_Captain_!" The young Gondorian turned to the soldiers and bellowed something Aragorn could not hear. Immediately, arrows ceased to fly in his direction. The former ranger felt a smile pull at his lips. Finally something was starting to go right. Now if he could just make it to the railing without being recognized by any of the corsairs, everything would be perfect.

A rough hand seized his shoulder. Aragorn groaned inwardly. Why was nothing perfect? The hand spun him around. Instead of resisting, Aragorn spun with the hand, using it's motion to add to his own. The Gondorian captain came around with his fist, putting all his weight behind the punch. He winced briefly as he connected with the pirate's jaw. The corsair blinked stupidly before collapsing to the deck. The whole incident took barely a moment, but it was enough. Another corsair leapt towards Aragorn. The former ranger ducked underneath the swinging blade, planting his fist into his opponent's gut. The man fell forward as an arm circled Aragorn's throat. He choked, feeling the arm tighten and cut off his flow of air. He was being forced to his knees. Stars were starting to appear in his vision. Both hands were clutching the arm that was slowly choking the life from him. Through hazy vision, Aragorn saw an arrow make a graceful arch from the Gondorian's ship and land directly in front of him, still flaming. Acting almost on instinct, he seized the burning shaft and, ripping it from the deck, shoved it back over his shoulder. There was a scream, and suddenly Aragorn had air. He fell forward onto his hands, crying out as his burnt hand connected with the deck. A few choice sindarin words passed his lips before he pushed himself to his feet. Silver eyes cast about grimly, but for the moment, it looked as if there were none to hinder him.

"You!"

Or so he thought.

Bits of flaming sail were starting to fall around his ears. The Gondorian captain glanced up sharply to see the entire rigging engulfed in flames. Within moments, the mast would come crashing down onto the deck, turning the ship into an inferno. He had to escape before that time.

"Strider!"

Aragorn knew who called him. He recognized the voice. His eyes were already darting across the deck, searching. There. Halith stood at the far side of the deck, white hair whipping around his face. Bitter rage was etched there. A naked blade gleamed in the fire's light. The pirate charged forward, his weapon raised.

The former ranger cast about looking for something, anything with which to defend himself. Swiftly, he snatched the curved blade from the nervless fingers of a corsair slain by one of the Gondorian arrows. He brought the weapon up just in time to meet that of Halith's. The blades met with a crash. Aragorn pushed mightily, throwing Halith back a step. The dark haired man quickly followed, swinging his sword in a low cutting arc hoping to catch his opponent off balance. Halith, however, recovered his balance with the assurance of a well trained and deadly swordsman. His weapon was there to meet Aragorn's. The elder man quickly followed his block by lashing out with a foot. He caught his opponents knee heavily. Aragorn cried out, falling to the deck. With an inarticulate cry of rage, Halith plunged forward with his blade. With a speed that belied his injured limb, Aragorn dove to the side and twisted to his feet, almost catlike. The corsair stumbled forward, thrown off by the unexpected absence of a target. Halith caught himself on the railing, turned, and dove towards Aragorn with a shriek. The former ranger could see the rage that glittered in Halith's single dark eye and knew with sudden clarity that the older man had nearly lost his hold on sanity. This fact, however, did not make him any less dangerous. The swords met once more. Oblivious of their surroundings, the two men battled up and down the deck, hearing only the sound of their blades. Aragorn spun as his enemy sought to skewer him, bringing his sword down sharply in a blow that rightly should have cost Halith his hand. The man moved quickly, considering his age. He escaped with a deep gash that cause him to cry out in pain. With a hiss, the corsair swiftly transferred his sword to his other hand. Aragorn attacked with single minded purpose. Visions rose in his mind, unbidden.

Legolas lay crumpled on the ground, a deep gash across his head, several ribs crushed by Halith's men. He was left to die.

Elladan and Elrohir carrying him from a place of darkness, ignoring their own injuries.

The cruel wands placed in his own flesh.

With a bellow, Aragorn renewed his attack. Halith fell back before him, a light of fear shining in his single eye…Aragorn was moving faster now, his blade flickering in the light of the flames, flashing with an almost inhuman speed and grace…

Halith felt the rails behind him. He had retreated to the side of the ship farthest from the attacking Gondorians and now there was nowhere to go. At the precise moment that he realized this, Aragorn's blade slipped through his defense.

Aragorn felt his weapon strike flesh. He felt it sink through Halith's body. He heard the corsair cry out in pain. Yet even as he withdrew his blade and saw the blood that dripped from it, he knew that he had not delivered a fatal blow. The Gondorian captain raised his arm to strike again… "_Firn,_" he whispered, so softly Halith almost did not hear him. "_Firn, Morgothion_!"

A splintering crack echoed through the night air. Aragorn knew what was happening. He hesitated for a moment, then with a curse, threw down the sword and sprinted towards the far side of the ship. He did not look up, but he could feel the heat of the collapsing sails. Would he make it in time? Perhaps he had waited too long already. The ranger reached the railing and dove, all the while expecting to be engulfed in a net of blazing canvas. A spar cracked down across his back as he leapt, driving the wind from his lungs. He did not have a chance to regain it before his body hit the blood coloured water.

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_Firn Morgothion!-Die son of Morgoth!_

**Okay, so...please let me know what you think...I SWEAR, that the next chapter will not take longer than a week to be posted. Thank you all for you patience and please oh please oh please review!**


	5. The End of Thorongil

**Okay, just so you all know, I have a confession to make! But I'm not going to put it at the beginning of the chapter.:) I'm actually getting this out on time for once! Woohoo! Hope you all enjoy the chapter and thank you all for your wonderful reviews!**

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_But when they came back to Pelargir, to men's grief and wonder, he would not return to Minas Tirith, where great honour awaited him…Though none could guess what those tasks might be, nor what summons he had received, it was known whither he went…when he was last seen his face was __towards the Mountains of Shadow._

_ **Return of the King-Appendix A, The Stewards**_

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The dark haired man choked as fluid rushed into his lungs. Kicking mightily, he gained the surface only to sink before he had a chance to gasp in more than a brief moments worth of air. What was wrong with him? Why could he not break free of the water's grip? He was going to die…he could not breathe…

His floundering hands brushed something rough that wrapped itself around his arms. A rope. A rope! Hoping desperately that it was attached to something solid (other than the flaming corsair ship) Aragorn caught hold of it securely and pulled. In response, something on the other end of the line pulled as well. The Gondorian captain rose from the water with a gasp, clinging to his lifeline like a very wet monkey. A monkey wearing steel greaves._ Stupid armour_… Aragorn thought bitterly. No wonder it had been so hard to swim!

He could sense that whoever was on the other end of the rope was taking pains to ensure that he was not roughly dragged up the side of the ship, thus, he had ample time to take in the scene before him. The rope was _not_ connected to the pirate ship, therefore he was currently being hauled aboard a vessel crewed by Gondorians. And he had an excellent view of the current state of the corsair's ship.

Aragorn's jaw gaped open. The vessel was completely in flames. The mast had come crashing down moments after he had leapt into the water's cold embrace. Blazing sails canvassed the entire deck, and the sails quickly set fire to everything they touched. Everything…

The small part of him that was still Estel turned away in horror from the sight that etched itself permanently into his brain. Years later, he would waken from dark dreams, not knowing exactly what it was that had terrified him within slumber's grasp, but having a fading recollection of flames and screams. The larger part of him, the identity he had worn for years watched in a mixture of horrified fascination and grim satisfaction. Thorongil had seen what these pirates were capable of. He had arrived at villages too late, coming only in time to bury the corpses left by the corsairs. Corpses of men, and of women. And children. The children were what he remembered most vividly.

"Captain!" Strong hands reached down to pull Thorongil aboard. Anguion ran disbelieving eyes over his superior commander. "Sir, we feared you dead." The young soldier wiped away sweat that was not entirely due to the heat. "Then I heard you call from the corsair's ship. For a few moments, I thought we might have found you only to see you die."

A brief smile flickered over Aragorn's bearded features. "Was it you who shot that arrow?"

Anguion flushed. "Aye. I was afraid to aim for the corsair himself."

The captain laid a hand on his soldier's shoulder. "You did well." Silver eyes roamed over the ship and the rest of his company. "You did very well."

"Thank you, sir." Anguion drew close to his captain, lowering his tone. "Sir, the corsair captain…we saw you fighting him, but with the collapse of the mast and the light…sir, is he dead?"

Aragorn thought of the blow he had given Halith. Not fatal, in and of itself. But the mast had collapsed, and Halith was certainly no longer young. The entire corsair ship was in flames. Surely anything left on it could not survive. Would Halith be able to swim to shore with his injury? Unlikely. "Yes," he said quietly. "He's dead." Thorongil cast a cold glance back at the burning ship. "And I do not think that the corsairs will be a problem for a very long time." Turning his silver gaze back on Anguion, he thrust the flaming ship and all its occupants behind him. Thorongil smiled; a weary smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Set sail for Pelargir."

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Music drifted through the air. Aragorn sat on the edge of his cot and sighed softly. Without a sound, he rose and strode to his cabin door. Upon reaching Pelargir, the men had gone ashore. The citizens of Pelargir were more than happy to greet them and receive the news they bore. As a result, the dock, the town, and the surrounding land had been turned into a feasting ground. Already the celebration had run through a full day and on into the night. This was the second night since he had escaped from the corsairs' flaming ship.

Aragorn had opted to remain aboard his ship in the relative comfort and solitude of the cabin, but his presence was called for. For a short period of time he had donned the hated armour once again and joined his soldiers. He soon found that he needed quiet. Leaving the festivities, he returned to his cabin. Aragorn could hear his men merry-making. They were rejoicing in their victory. And why shouldn't they? They had achieved a great accomplishment, and with a relatively small loss of their own comrades. Let them rejoice. They had earned it.

How much did he wish he could join them!

How much did he yearn to return home…

How much did he realize that it was not to be.

Halith's words had worried him too much to let the matter rest. He had to investigate the new power growing in the black land. Aragorn turned from the door and leaned his back against it, letting his head sink forward and cradling it with his hands. He was tired. So tired. The former ranger rubbed a hand over his bearded features, feeling the lines that experience had etched there. He wanted to go home.

He couldn't.

Silver eyes appraised his hands. They were rough with labour, calloused from the hours spent in training with a blade and many other weapons. A linen strip was wrapped around the one that had been burned. Similar bandages had been placed around the raw patches of skin he had scraped away in his hurry to escape. The treatment was adequate, but undeniably rough. Field medicine. On returning to Gondor, a healer would look at his wounds, no doubt marvel at the speed his wounds seemed to be healing and send him off. Usually, when this happened, Thorongil smiled secretly to himself and continued on his way.

The small part of him that was still Estel yearned for home. He longed for the touch of Lord Elrond's healing hands. He wanted to see his father and brothers. He wanted to hear their voices and laugh with them on a clear night when Earendil twinkled in the heavens.

Estel called for home.

Thorongil deemed it wise to return to Gondor.

The strength of the Dark Lord of Mordor haunted Strider's mind.

Who was he? What path would he take? Would he be the commander of his men, joining in their revelry and returning with them to Gondor? Would he be the ranger, a man destined to be king, and investigate the danger to his kingdom?

He wanted to be Estel. He wanted more than anything to be Lord Elrond's son and return to Imladris.

Maybe…maybe someday he would be Estel. Not today. Aragorn pushed himself away from the door with a sigh. With a groan of weariness, he propped his foot on his cot and fumbled with the straps that held the greaves to his legs. Nor would he be Thorongil any longer, and he knew, as he dropped the armour to the floor, that this was a name that he would not return to. A part of him was sad. He had long lived under this name, and had served two masters to the best of his ability. But the time had come, as he had known it must, that he would leave it behind.

As the last piece a metal fell away, he straightened, feeling a lightening of the heart. True, he was not returning home…but he felt curiously free. Responsibilities were falling from his shoulders as easily as the armour from his body. If he could not be Estel, Strider was surely the next best. He had one last duty to attend to before he set aside the mantel of Thorongil, however. Seating himself at a rough hewn table, the Captain drew forth pen and paper and quickly penned a letter of farewell for the Lord Ecthelion. Thorongil had enjoyed serving under the steward of the white city. Indeed, Ecthelion had often listened to his captain's counsel. The letter was not long, but heartfelt. In it he expressed his gratitude for the many privileges and responsibilities that he been given him, remembering the noble steward that had accepted him on the basis of his skill and leadership rather than any claim of nobility.

_Other tasks now call me, lord,_ he concluded._ and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate._ Thorongil blew gently on the paper to dry the ink, then folded it and left it resting on the table. It would be found there. His men would make sure that it made it's way to the Lord Ecthelion's hands.

He knew he should wait until he was rested, but there would not be a better time to leave than now. The men were distracted, and they were not expecting him to go anywhere. Aragorn stretched for a moment, feeling the tension that had slowly built within him over years start to ease. It would be a long while before it was completely dissolved. With a smile starting to curl the corners of his mouth, the dark haired man crossed the room and knelt in front of a special trunk. There were things in this trunk that did not appear very often, but that he cherished deeply. First to appear was a sword. The workmanship was excellent, of obvious elven make. Though this was usually the weapon he wore, he had chosen not to before the night's battle. A wise choice, as it happened. For if the sword had accompanied him on the evening's adventures, no doubt it would have followed some corsair to the bottom of the Anduin.

His brothers had given him this sword. When he was sixteen. With great care, he buckled it tightly about his waist.

Next to appear was a bow, and a quiver of arrows. Also of elven make. Also a gift of his brothers.

The last item he drew form the trunk was very old, and looked as though it would not last another moment. This did _not_ come from Elladan and Elrohir, and the two elf lords would have been horrified to have been associated with the object.

It was a leather coat, extremely travel stained. The wear and tear only made it more comfortable, or at least that's what Aragorn claimed whenever his siblings reproached him for his attachment to such a decrepit garment. The dark haired man quickly drew on the coat, then strapped on his bow and arrows. Over all this he threw a cloak, and drew the hood low over his face. As the shadows claimed his features, he felt a smile start to tug at the corners of his bearded mouth.

He was not Thorongil anymore.

With a skill that was paralleled by none, Strider slipped from his cabin, departed the ship, the proceeded to disappear into the night as though he had never been. He paused once, and looked back on the fires of his men. It would be an easy thing to return. They wouldn't even know he had left. He reached up and slid his hood back onto his shoulders. Starlight reflected in his silver eyes. The moon's wan light danced over the dark hair the fell freely to his shoulders. For a moment, though he did not know it, he looked almost otherworldly. Like an elf and not the man that had led these soldiers for years. His shoulders were straight and proud, his head thrown back with chin high. He looked like a lord, and not a soldier.

A gentle wind stirred behind him, blowing a strand of hair across his cheek. Aragorn turned from the encampment to the open country. A soft smile tugged once more at his mouth. With a deft movement, his hood once again swallowed his features in shadow. Thorongil disappeared into the history of Gondor like willow-the-wisp, and Strider allowed his long legs to carry him away towards the East. Perhaps someday Estel would return to Imladris, but for now, Strider would look into the darkness that was spreading from Mordor.

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Only one man saw him leave. The young soldier, Anguion, watched as his captain disappeared into the night. He had suspected that something like this would happen. Thorongil had been quietly preparing several men for months, readying them to take his place. Most people would have assumed that this was natural for a soldier to train men underneath him, but Anguion saw the difference. Yes, Thorongil had been training them, but to replace him, not help him. The comment his captain had made of home only served to strengthen Anguion's suspicions. As a rule, Thorongil did not speak of home. No one serving with, or under him had ever heard him mention it before and there was not a man who knew anything of the captain other than his service with Rohan before he came to Gondor.

Therefore, Anguion was not surprised to see his leader depart. However, what did surprise the young soldier was Thorongil's countenance. It was not the expression of a man returning to a home he had longed for. No, his had been the set features of one who knew he had yet another task to complete before he reached his goal.

The truth hit the dark-haired man like a blow. Thorongil traveled into the East. His steps led him to the Black Land. Anguion felt his head bow with the weight of the realization.

All around him his companions made merry, but the young man did not hear them. As fervently as he had ever prayed, Anguion asked the Valar to watch the steps of the man he held in highest esteem. He asked that Thorongil survive to return to the home the captain longed for.

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_Two nights earlier_

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Quite frankly, he was astounded that he was alive. Hurt, yes. One gnarled hand clasped his shoulder tightly against the crimson tide that fought to push past his fingers. He was winning however. The flood had already slowed, and he knew from experience that soon it would stop altogether.

He knew that he shouldn't be alive. Although the wound itself was not fatal, the mast should have finished him off. He had seen it coming, jumping at the last moment into the Anduin. There had been a lot of debris raining down. Flaming bits of canvas, pieces of wood…the entire ship had chosen that moment to break apart. Considering his wound, and his age, he was really shocked to be alive. Oh, but he was hurt. He had not escaped unscathed. For one, there was his shoulder. Then there were the numerous burns and bruises he had accumulated from the hellish maze of flaming material he had been forced to swim through.

With a harsh breath, Halith swiped at the strands of white hair that clung to his forehead, dripping into his dark eye. He was alive, however. Alive, and probably presumed dead by Strider. That in itself could have advantages.

The old man leaned back against the river bank, checking his wound. Good. The bleeding had nearly stopped. Images whirled through the former corsair captain's mind. Pieces of a puzzle. The cruel intelligence lurking in his eye put them together quickly.

The Eye was looking for the heir of Isildur.

Dark haired and grey eyed men that spoke the tongues of elves and were leaders by the blood that flowed through their veins. Men gifted with extended lives due to that same blood, mixed with elves by all accounts. The Dunedein were the last survivors of this line of kings. Rangers, to the common folk.

The image of Strider strode through the mist of Halith's mind, light glinting from a blade. A man gifted to be a natural leader. He lived amongst the elves. Why? Why of all humans did this one live amongst the fair folk of Rivendell? By his own admission he was one of the Dunedein. A ranger.

Coincidence?

No.

Halith rose to his feet shakily and strode away into the night. A reward had been promised him for this man. He planned to collect on it. He had at least two advantages to aid him. One, he was thought dead. No one looked for an attack from a corpse. Two, he knew where his enemy lived.

"It's not over yet, Strider," his whispered softly. Without another word, the human stumbled away into the night, his steps pointing him west.

**Not the End…**

**So here we have the confession. This was the last chapter in this story. (hides as readers arise in angry protest) Let me explain! When I wrote To Be a Man, I wanted to have a story where he came back to be the villain again. After all, good villains are so hard to find. Anyway, I had a good storyline, the problem was dropping Halith back into our characters' lives believably. But then, my wonderful sister beta hit on a good idea. Have a filler story that's built on canon, that leads to the next storyline. This is that filler story. I considered having it a part of the next story, but they really are two almost completely different plot lines so it became confusing. **

**Okay, so that wasn't a real nice way to finish this up. I admit it! However, I already the the next story under construction and it will hold all that everyone holds dear. In other words, the twins, Legolas, torment, angst, blood and all that good stuff.:) I hope you have all enjoyed the filler story, and would love to have you join me for the next installment! I should start posting in no later than two weeks, probably before that.**


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